My human believes she is in charge.
This belief is very important to her. I can tell because she says things like, “Skye, not right now,” and “Skye, you already had one,” and my personal favorite, “Skye, I’m the boss.”
I let her believe this.
Leadership is heavy, and humans already carry so much. Calendars. Keys. Phones that make noise for no reason. It would be unkind to correct her.
From the outside, it probably looks like my human runs the house. She decides when we wake up. She decides when we eat. She decides when we leave and when we come back. She even decides when treats are “earned,” which is adorable, because treats are never earned. They are deserved by existing.
Still, I allow the illusion.
What my human doesn’t realize is that I manage the important systems. I regulate the emotional climate. I monitor snack security. I maintain routine integrity. I oversee naps, which are critical infrastructure.
Take mornings, for example.
My human’s alarm goes off, and she immediately negotiates with it. I don’t negotiate. I open one eye, assess the light, and decide whether it’s a “stretch first” morning or a “pretend to still be asleep” morning. If she tries to move too fast, I reposition myself directly in her path. This is not an accident. This is pacing.
She thinks she is late. I know she is early.
Humans rush when they feel behind. Dogs slow things down when they matter.
My human also believes she decides what we eat. Technically, she does the shopping and the cooking, but I am the quality control department. If something hits the bowl and I look at it slowly, with my head tilted just enough, she immediately questions her choices.
Sometimes she says, “You ate this yesterday.”
Yes. Yesterday was different.
I am not difficult. I am discerning.
Leadership also means knowing when to step back. I nap strategically. Not because I’m tired, but because someone needs to model what rest looks like. Humans forget that productivity without pause turns into irritability, and irritability leads to fewer treats.
Naps are preventative care.
On Mondays especially, I nap near her desk. Mondays make humans behave strangely. They stare at screens as if answers might appear. They sigh at nothing. They forget to eat. I nap loudly during these moments. My breathing reminds her body how to breathe.
She thinks I’m asleep. I’m not. I’m supervising.
There is also Lenny.
Lenny believes he is clever. He is old and grumpy and steals treats by hiding them on his bed, then daring me to take them. This is his version of leadership. It is flawed, but I respect the confidence.
My human thinks she mediates these situations. She says things like, “Lenny, that’s not yours,” as if ownership is fixed. What actually happens is that I allow Lenny to feel powerful for a moment, because everyone deserves dignity in their later years.
Then, later, when no one is watching, I reclaim what is rightfully mine.
This is called long-term strategy.
Humans confuse control with leadership. Control is loud. Leadership is quiet. Leadership looks like letting someone think they made a decision you gently guided. Leadership looks like patience. Leadership looks like knowing when to act and when to nap.
My human thinks she is in charge because she makes lists. I know I’m in charge because I know when the house needs calm. When the kitchen needs laughter. When the day needs to slow down.
She doesn’t notice that when she sits, I sit. When she breathes deeply, I settle. When she’s overwhelmed, I appear, not asking anything, just existing nearby. That’s influence.
Influence is more powerful than rules.
So yes, my human thinks she’s in charge. I nod politely. I follow commands selectively. I sit when it serves the moment. I stay when staying is needed. I lead by example.
At the end of the day, when she finally stops moving and sits down, I curl up beside her. She sighs, scratches my ears, and says, “You run this place, don’t you?”
I do not answer.
A good leader never brags.
Love,
Skye 🐾